


evasive maneuvers

by desiredeffect



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desiredeffect/pseuds/desiredeffect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wash,” York gripes, placing his hand over his eyes in completely feigned anxiety, “I said go left.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	evasive maneuvers

“ _Wash_ ,” York gripes, placing his hand over his eyes in completely feigned anxiety, “I said go left.”

Wash spins in the direction of his voice, only a few ( _seventy five, York)_ degrees west of York’s actual location, and it’s quite clearly written on Wash’s face how frustrating this whole venture is.

“It would help if you at least put me in the right direction, asshole.”

York cocks his head to the side. “I’m pretty sure that would defeat the entire purpose of this exercise.”

“And what  _is_ the purpose of the exercise?” North asks from the other side of the room. There’s a moment where Wash turns blindly and steps in his direction, but North evades him easily, stepping underneath Wash’s fingertips and circling around behind York.

York grins widely as North drapes both arms over his shoulders, and sometimes York forgets how stupidly tall North is (a _ctually, at the maximum calculation, he is only two inches taller than you)_  when there’s a feather-light kiss on the top of his head _._ “It’s a game.”

“Yeah,” North drawls, “you mentioned that already. What’s the point though?”

“Increasing our evasion skills,” York replies, just a tad too quickly to be convenient, “and teaching our young boy Wash here how imperative it is to use  _all_ your senses and not just your eyes.”

They look at each other briefly, then to Wash, who half stumbles over a forlorn piece of furniture in the middle of the room. If it wasn’t so unlike Wash, it probably would’ve been more funny than torturous.

“I think he needs to practice,” North stage whispers anyway, and Wash flips off the wall.

“I hate you both.”

“Well he knows how to use his mouth,” York mutters with a shrug and North’s low laugh sparks the slightest shiver down his spine.

“I don’t think that counts as a sense.”

Wash is closer now; the frown etched into his face an interesting summation of how hard he must be concentrating. It’s kind of interesting, York thinks, that he sometimes imagines Delta wearing that same expression when creating algorithms. Not that he’d ever go as far as to assume Wash was that bright.

_York_ _._

“It counts,” York jumps in, sending a fast mental apology to Delta who sighs exasperatedly in response, “I mean, it means touch when it connects with something, and  _man_ , does he have a good touch.”

“Charming,” North responds dryly, “d’you feel like testing that theory?”

York sounds a little smug when he bites back, “I  _have_  tested that theory. Extensively. I even let you help sometimes.”

“ _Guys_ ,” Wash sounds a little desperate now, and North shifts behind York, “please shut the hell up.”

North’s hand spreads out along the small of York’s back, and there’s another kiss, a sharp little bite at the edge of his jaw. “It’s alright, York’s coming to save you.”

“I what— _hey!”_

Wash’s hand fists in York’s shirt, pulling him down until he can cover York’s mouth with his own. The angle is awkward, and York’s pretty sure Wash missed his mouth entirely the first time, but he’s eager, tongue sliding up against York’s, and York finds his own protestations slipping away as his eyes fall shut.

Wash’s hands wrap around his shoulders and for all that they make fun of him, Wash isn’t exactly the tiniest guy running around the Freelancer garrison. He’s got a sense of the room now, and York can feel Wash’s smirk curling up against his mouth as he pushes York back ever so slightly.

“So,” North interrupts lightly and York starts, causing them to pull apart with a slick sound, “Wash.”

If he wasn’t smirking before, Wash certainly is now. “North.” And wait, when did Wash take off the—

“I think York lost.”

York is scrambling away before his brain can fully process it, but Wash’s hands are still steady on his shoulders, and he doesn’t get very far before Wash’s is pushing him down onto his knees. Wash’s smile is bright.

“I think you’re right.”

“Traitor,” York hisses at North, as the fabric settles against his face, lightly at first, then tighter as the material is pulled into a knot at the back of his skull.

There’s another kiss on the top of his head, and Wash says almost inaudibly, “I don’t know how you do that with how much crap he puts in there.”

“Well, you know what they say, York,” there’s a noise as York imagines North leaning over to plant one on Wash’s mouth, “all’s fair in love and ingenious ways to avoid being in trouble.”


End file.
